Curb Your Enthusiasm: A Reluctant Love Story
by ffefryn
Summary: Piper's diary, in which triumphs are few, mishaps are many, and people keep trying to kill her boss. Not that she cares or anything.  Pre-Ptolemy's Gate
1. Chapter 1

**Curb Your Enthusiasm (A Reluctant Love Story)**

**Rating**: T (occasional outbursts of scandalous language, some sexual themes)**  
Warning(s)**: None**  
Spoilers**: Nothing specific; set between _Golem's Eye _and _Ptolemy's Gate_

**Disclaimer**: Characters and general universe are the property of Jonathan Stroud, although I've taken liberties with my interpretation of Rebecca Piper. I also owe my initial inspiration for a diary-style story from She's A Star, particularly her very amusing _Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit_.

**Pre-Chapter Notes**: I actually had this idea years ago, but took a prolonged break from fandom before I ever got around to writing it. Now I fully intend to have fun with this. I get the sense that it's going to be primarily ridiculous (it's in diary format, after all), with the occasional serious interlude; my conception of the story as it stands is very loose – but obviously quite Piper-centric. I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_I._

**Friday, October 12****  
8:11 P.M.**

It's a relief to know that every now and then the universe has better things to do than conspire against me. I've been promoted.

Promoted! I'm John Mandrake's new assistant! I wish this journal were sentient so it could properly appreciate the momentousness of the occasion. After all, this isn't some mundane secretarial position, this is…well, _John Mandrake_, the Head of Internal Affairs! The youngest department Head in history, for that matter – he's absolutely brilliant and amazingly talented, not to mention rather good-looking.

I mean, so I've heard. I haven't actually noticed…personally. Just, you hear things. Around the office, from other people. You know.

Right, well, it's actually strange how it came about. My former boss dropped dead this morning of a heart attack while giving an important presentation to the Heads of the various departments. Apparently in the ministers' hurry to find a replacement they forgot all about tending to the body and left him lying glassy-eyed on the floor for hours. It was all rather tragic.

Anyway, it turned out the official who replaced him, Joseph Perkins, already has an assistant. Which, as he was quick to point out, made me rather redundant.

I waited for him to follow up with something like, "But not to worry, I've arranged for you to work with so-and-so."

He didn't. In fact, if I hadn't set aside my self-consciousness and asked where I was expected to work now, I suspect he might have left it at that. That may seem appalling to you, but unfortunately I'm rather used to this sort of thing by now. I waited patiently while he placed several (somewhat terse) calls inquiring after a new position for "Royston's desk girl, Pit…Priss…"

"Piper," I supplied wearily.

"Piper," he repeated, glaring at me as if his inability to remember my name was my fault, which frankly seemed a bit stupid.

Unsurprisingly, there was no other place in the department for me (up until now I worked in the department of the Home Secretary), and after several futile calls to other departments looking for openings I was beginning to wonder if Mr. Perkins would actually demote me just so he could say he had taken care of the problem. Fortunately it didn't come to that; he received a call from Internal Affairs informing him that Mr. Mandrake was looking for an assistant. He hasn't been Head of the department long, and hadn't hired anyone yet.

The rest, I suppose, is self-explanatory: when he heard I was available, Mr. Mandrake took me on immediately.

**8:20 P.M.**

All right, I suppose that was a little misleading. It wasn't as if my name alone was enough to secure the position. (If I'm going to be honest, I doubt he has any clue who I am.)

If you want the whole story, Mr. Mandrake had given one of his junior ministers the task of finding him a suitable assistant, and had been in the process of putting it off when he received Mr. Perkins' message concerning my availability. I expect he pulled up my file, found no glaring indication that I would be unsatisfactory (unsurprising – I'm nothing if not industrious), and informed Mr. Mandrake that I would be taking the position.

So I suppose Mr. Mandrake really had nothing to do with my promotion at all, other than leaving the opening conveniently available. Put that way, it kind of diminishes the accomplishment. A bit.

Actually, I think I'll just stop here before I ruin the whole thing.

**8:32 P.M.**

Feeling rather sulky now, thanks _so_ much.

**8:34 P.M.**

Still, it's not as if I don't _deserve_ this. After all, I entered the Ministry at quite a young age – twelve years old, in fact – and have demonstrated nothing but competence for the past seven years. Perhaps the progress of my career has been a bit, well, abnormally slow, but it's not for lack of ability on my part. Other factors – over which (or I should say _whom_) I have no control, I might add – have been something of an impediment.

It's just that – and I don't want to sound rude or ungrateful, I truly don't – but a master's reputation inevitably colors others' perceptions of his or her apprentice. If the master is competent, the apprentice is received with favorable expectations, but if the other members of the government have certain…misgivings…about the master, then the apprentice may find it rather difficult to win the other officials over.

I suppose you can guess which situation _I'm_ in.

It's not that my master is in any way unskilled – in fact, she's a very talented magician. But her ability is somewhat overshadowed by her myriad eccentricities. It turns out the Ministry isn't all that tolerant of eccentricities. And Gladstone knows, I've tried to present as moderated an image as possible – I dress conservatively, I avoid alcohol at social functions, and I do my work well and efficiently – but none of that seems to make a difference. The ministers are dismissive of me at best, scornful at worst.

But this is my chance to show them that they're wrong to see me that way. My new position is much higher-profile than my last, and once Mr. Mandrake sees how capable I am, I'm sure to rise in favor. Who knows what sort of intrigue I'll be privy to, what sorts of situations will put my skills to the test? I'm glad I'm sitting down – the possibilities make my head spin!

I might even _oh my god whatlshgakdf_

**8: 40 P.M.**

_Sigh_.

Witherhorns shows up so unexpectedly sometimes. I've had him for over a year but it's difficult to get accustomed to casually glancing up and seeing four rows of teeth right in front of your face. (I'm pretty sure that's smiling? Mostly?) He claims he's just checking in, in case I need something, but I'm not quite convinced – imps by nature aren't that magnanimous.

I keep meaning to adjust the terms of his summoning so that he can't just appear in my bedroom. He pops in and out randomly, especially in the evenings, and honestly I'm getting tired of changing under my covers just in case he happens to materialize while I'm undressing for bed. Unfortunately I had to learn to take that precaution the hard way.

I don't even want to talk about it.

**8:44 P.M.**

Having an imp a brief incantation away is convenient, of course. When he behaves himself he's really quite useful – I admit I'm pampered by having a mug of tea ready for me every morning, and it's really convenient to not have to personally run all my errands. Having my supplies of paper towels and pens and the like quietly replenished when needed is a subtle but wonderful luxury. Wonderful.

Except.

Well.

He's just so _creepy_.

Sometimes I could swear he wiggles his ears in a particularly…lewd fashion. Plus his questionable motivations in visiting my bedroom several times an evening, and his disconcertingly disappointed expression (I think that's what the puckering is) every time he finds me just at my desk or what have you. Plus that…that incident which I won't mention, from which I expect I may never fully recover.

Maybe I should dismiss him permanently, find another imp who doesn't make me quite so uncomfortable.

He brews tea _so _well, though. It would be a shame. And his habitual form is actually tolerable compared to the taste of most of his kind. Furry is better than slimy or scaly, even if it is green fur. Sometimes he looks like a sentient portion of a particularly hideous carpet.

I suppose I could always order another imp to take on a particular shape. It just seems kind of impolite, is all.

…And statements like that are probably why no one in the magical community takes me seriously. Even my master, who's far more indulgent than most magicians, has always been bewildered by how awkward I feel ordering my spirits – _servants_, see, I can hardly even write it – around. It turns out most entities aren't exactly overwhelmed with gratitude and esteem for you when you apologize for your commands and generally act like a wet blanket.

**8:53 P.M.**

Well, I certainly didn't intend to start criticizing myself. It's hard to believe I started writing with good news. I should focus on taking full advantage of my new, exciting position. Working for such an eminent magician as John Mandrake is sure to turn the tide of general disdain. And with my efficiency and work ethic, we're certain to develop a productive working relationship grounded in mutual respect – respect from our government's hero! I'm almost lightheaded!

Well, on that note I think I'll wind down for bed, read a book. Perhaps Griffin's _Lesser Binding Clauses in the Greek Magical Papyri_.

Or, all right, fine.

More likely _The Trials of Desdemona, the Warlock's Lover_.

Don't look at me like that – it's a guilty pleasure. I'm entitled! And besides, the author is a commoner and it's interesting, in an anthropological sense, to see how those not raised in the magical tradition perceive magicians and their abilities. And Aziraphale, the titular warlock, is quite a compelling character – outwardly cold and imposing, but hiding a fiery, passionate soul behind his sculpted chest. And sculpted arms. And flowing, leonine locks, and piercing amber eyes.

…

Oh god, please don't tell anyone.

(As if you could, being admittedly inanimate. Addressing the book directly is just a stylistic quirk, all right? I mean, _really_.)

I'm leaving now.

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**End Notes**: My main concern here was getting into the stride of Piper's voice. The way I envision her personality is a little tricky, a blend of naiveté, self-consciousness, and a somewhat affected propriety that gets derailed in stressful or emotional moments. I find it easier to write and be humorous from the perspective of outright sarcastic or temperamental characters, so if nothing else this should be a useful exercise. Anyway, whether or not you review, thanks so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Curb Your Enthusiasm (A Reluctant Love Story)**

**Rating**: T (occasional outbursts of scandalous language, some sexual themes)**  
Warning(s)**: None**  
Spoilers**: Nothing specific; set between _Golem's Eye _and _Ptolemy's Gate_

**Disclaimer**: Characters and general universe are the property of Jonathan Stroud, although I've taken liberties with my interpretation of Rebecca Piper. I also owe my initial inspiration for a diary-style story from She's A Star, particularly her very amusing _Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit_.

**Pre-Chapter Notes**: Now with more sketchiness from Witherhorns, Piper's master, and her first day in Internal Affairs. And many, many thanks to those who reviewed – I really appreciate the feedback!

* * *

_II_.

**Sunday, October 14  
1:33 P.M.**

I just got off the phone with my master. What with all the excitement and confusion surrounding my promotion, I never did a chance to let her know about my new job. I felt so guilty! She's the magician I know best, wholly interested in my welfare, and of course the first person I should have told.

Yet now it seems I shouldn't have worried. Her response wasn't really what I expected.

"Mandrake," she said, after I'd enthusiastically revealed the identity of my new boss. (Or, fine, I may have gushed a bit, actually.) My master wasn't as thrilled, unless I grossly misread her tone when she continued, "That oily one? Drainpipe suit, looks like an egret?"

"An egret?" I repeated, in some confusion.

"All legs, no meat on him, stalks around like a great bird."

"He is rather tall," I said.

"He's also rather gangly," she added. "I've seen him on television – he looks like someone ought to be cleaning chimneys with him."

"Edolie!" I gasped, scandalized. (Our master-apprentice relationship was and remains quite informal – from the day we met she insisted I call her Edolie, "none of this simpering 'Yes Master' business.") "That's…that's so disrespectful. He _saved_ the government – hardly a task he could have accomplished wedged in a chimney."

"Well," she said dryly, "at least you're already starry-eyed and admiring; he won't have to worry about impressing you."

I didn't feel the need to dignify this with a response, assuming I could have thought of one.

"But!" my master went on, her tone overly-jovial; I suppose she thought she'd offended me. "You're right about the opportunity – they should have acknowledged you like this years ago. You're certainly talented enough, and one of the few actually competent people they've got."

(I may have given her the version of my promotion that involved being hand-selected by Mr. Mandrake himself.)

"Yes," I agreed. Immodest, perhaps, but Edolie gets exasperated when I hedge.

"Do well with this position and it's all upward from here," she told me. "So if I were you, I wouldn't screw it up."

"Sound advice – very helpful," I snapped, but only after she'd said an abrupt goodbye and hung up. I had the curious urge to throw my phone across the room, but of course refrained. It was a ridiculous impulse.

**1.45 P.M.**

Why is she so scornful of Mr. Mandrake, anyway? It seems to me that if you uncover a conspiracy and save your city and citizens a great deal of trouble, you're entitled to more than casual criticism of your appearance. But then Edolie has always been somewhat…independent-minded.

Or "batshit insane," if you'd prefer the vulgar phrasing of my colleagues. Which I do not.

She's just eccentric, is all. In her day she was as skilled and sharp as any of them, although as soon as I entered Whitehall she retired, and chooses to direct her considerable energies toward gardening. She's produced an array of curious hybrids, and whenever I visit she walks me around and introduces me to the new ones, describing in somewhat-exhausting detail their exact genealogy and known properties.

She determines these properties by feeding their berries, roots, leaves, etc. to her cat and studying the effects. Which is actually rather horrifying, although it seems that Lamprey has unheard-of resilience. He's still alive, anyway, even if the inside of his mouth and throat are now fluorescent green. (That was the Wandering Hibiscus, I believe. Edolie was in hysterics – she kept turning out the lights so she could see his mouth glowing in the dark.)

All right, so maybe she is a little insane. But if she applied her talents in any conventional manner, there would be no crossing her, I'm sure.

**7:30 P.M.**

Is it pathetic if I've already chosen what I'm going to wear tomorrow? I want to make a good impression. Although that essentially means I made my decision according to what I thought was the most respectable color, since to be honest most of my work clothes are very similar to each other. Lots of blazers, skirts, and white blouses.

Is peacock blue too ostentatious? It's such a pretty color. But whenever I wear anything vibrant I feel as though my face disappears.

I'll change it out for the navy.

**9:22 P.M.**

WITHERHORNS! That – that –

I'm serious now when I say that I have had _enough_ of his antics! As if I'm stupid enough to believe he just _happened_ to decide to wash all the towels while I _chanced_ to be in the shower! This has really gone too far – if I knew the incantation offhand I would have given him a good Stippling, but instead had to settle for harsh invective that probably lost a great deal of its effect due to my being wrapped in the bathmat at the time.

(He didn't think to wash _that_, did he? So not only is he utterly _disgusting_ and inappropriate, he demonstrates a shocking lack of forethought as well. _Disgraceful!_)

And as if that wasn't enough indignity, while I was shouting (or rather, talking sternly) at him I glanced over at the sink just in time to see a spider with a great yellow stripe on its back crawl out of the drain. In my resulting spasms of horror I'm afraid the bathmat slipped a bit, but I'd already gibbered something to the effect of "ARGH kill it, Witherhorns, _kill it now_ _oh my GOD_" so fortunately he probably missed _that _little spectacle.

And wouldn't you know, that spider shot right back into the drain, and by the time Witherhorns thinned and lengthened his arm enough to thrust it down into the pipe after it, it had gone.

Which means it's probably still there. Lurking.

Extermination duty is now on the list of Witherhorns' duties. His taste for insect life is the _only_ thing keeping him in my service at the moment. That and his tea.

**9:57 P.M.**

All right, and his laundering abilities – my towels are remarkably fluffy now, I'm not sure how he managed that.

Not that I'm any less appalled, I assure you! It's just unhealthy to maintain those levels of fury for any extended period of time.

**9:58 P.M.**

I really am a sorry excuse for a master.

**11:44 P.M.**

I really should get to sleep soon if I want to give a top performance tomorrow. I suppose I'm still worked up from the towel-bathmat-spider debacle, plus I'm jittery thinking about what's in store for me tomorrow. Will Mr. Mandrake start me on important assignments right away? I'm not sure what he expects of me in terms of ability, but I'm sure my consistent competence speaks for itself. He'll probably involve me in the war effort right away, getting me to look over the pamphlets and so on, maybe even write some of the content – that's a high priority for the department at the moment.

I believe he writes a great deal of those "from the front lines" accounts himself, and he does quite a good job with them. Even knowing they're propaganda, I still find them rather affecting. The one about the young soldier who fought a djinni head-on and lost his hand, but whose belief in his cause was only strengthened, was particularly moving. He has quite the talent for narrative!

Of course, I cried at the ending of _The Warlock's Lover_, so.

(But it was so romantic how Aziraphale gave his life to protect Desdemona from his jealous rival's machinations, and such a beautiful moment when Desdemona resurrected him with her magical amulet – the very gift that he'd given her to express his love! Not that it's remotely possible in a literal sense – amulets don't work that way at all – but the sentiment was nice.)

(My taste in literature could be called questionable, if that isn't perfectly clear.)

Well, enough chitchat – I really should get to bed. I feel really good about tomorrow, actually. Edolie's wrong about Mr. Mandrake; he's a talented, resourceful man and working him should be rewarding in the extreme.

**Monday, October 15****  
5:23 P.M.**

Never mind. I hate him. I should tear out every preceding page in which I sang his praises, because he's nothing but a snobbish _git_ and I've never been so insulted in my life!

**5:24 P.M.**

If _only_ these pages were perforated, I would neatly extract those entries and then SET THEM ON FIRE.

As it stands, the thought of all those ragged edges only makes things worse – _if that's even possible._

So just let me state for the record that everything I said in approbation of Mandrake is FALSE and MISLEADING and should only be taken seriously in the event the earth suddenly FLATTENS OUT.

**5:27 P.M.**

I mean, seriously – PHOTOCOPIES? POURING _COFFEE_? THIS is the kind of thing I can expect to do as the personal assistant of one of the most influential and powerful magicians in Whitehall? Photocopies and providing caffeinated beverages are jobs for _secretaries_ and especially incompetent junior ministers! _Not_ the person who is meant to be like a third arm, an extension of your mind, a soundboard for your projects and custodian for your concerns!

At least, that's what I assume a personal assistant should be. Certainly not a coffee wench!

**5:29 P.M.**

The only reason he could have foisted these embarrassing and demeaning tasks on me rather than his assortment of other underlings is that they are all he thinks I'm capable of doing. And the only reason he would think _that_ is if he's adopted the opinion of someone else, because he certainly knows nothing about me or my level of competence! Which is _considerable_, thank you very much, and certainly is not restricted to asking if he prefers cream or sugar.

Which I did very well and efficiently, _obviously_, but that's hardly the point.

The point is that it's official: I'm a laughingstock, the days-old gum stuck to the bottom of Whitehall's boot, fit for nothing except burying my face in this stack of neatly folded and exceedingly soft towels and _suffocating myself_.

**5:31 P.M.**

Fine, that's melodramatic.

I _am_, however, going straight to Druid's and ordering something saturated with caramel and extra whipped cream, health be damned. _Maybe I will even be stingy when I tip._

I hate everyone.

* * *

**End Notes**: Oh, _Piper_. Hopefully this was a bit more humorous than the last chapter; it should get more interesting the more characters and situations are involved. Thanks so much for reading!


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